


Christmas Dinner

by singasweetrussianlullaby



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 17:09:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9773657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singasweetrussianlullaby/pseuds/singasweetrussianlullaby
Summary: A take on the Holmes Family Christmas dinner.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I started this fic in 2014 and hadn't looked at it since now. I hope you enjoy my silly little take on how Christmas dinner might go with these little troublemakers.

“Mummy, Sherlock is flicking his peas again!” 

The seven year old boy grimaced. He hated his brother’s voice, it was so whiny and irritating, just like him. Just because he was a teenager now he thought he knew everything. He flicked another pea at his brother, watching it land satisfyingly in his hair, causing him to shriek in annoyance. But his mother had seen that one, and she looked disappointed in her son. Sherlock lowered his spoon distinctively, setting it neatly by his plate, and found himself looking down at his hands, which suddenly became the most interesting thing in the room. 

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” she said firmly, “what have I told you?”

“No flicking peas at the dinner table,” Sherlock said. He heard that so many times now it was a routine thing to say. Seemingly satisfied by the answer (or more likely that the whole fiasco was over with, they were entertaining guests after all), she turned to go and fetch the Christmas turkey from the oven. Mycroft stuck his tongue out at his ridiculous little brother before turning and talking politely to an aunt that Sherlock didn’t recognize nor did he care to learn her name. He knew Mycroft didn’t care either, but both boys had behaved miserably earlier and were under the watchful eye of their mother. 

Instead of eating his peas like he had promised to do before anyone arrived (along with sitting up straight, responding when people asked him questions and a whole long list of things he didn’t remember), he glanced again at the people they were sitting with. On the end of the table was their father. Beside him.. must be an uncle. The two were laughing about something, loud enough that he could hear. He could see that the uncle had traveled a long way from the bags under his eyes and how he held himself. He seemed to be struggling to stay awake, but was forcing himself to. 

Down the line were some women he faintly recalled meeting the last Christmas dinner. Could be close family friends, but more likely aunts from his mother’s side. They hardly visited, and often resorted to sending cards and money to tide the family over until the next Christmas, where they would most likely than not just flake out again. Beside Sherlock (and he was certain Mycroft had switched seats because neither of them wanted to be there) was someone who simply reeked of booze. He was laughing loudly as he held his glass haphazardly. He also had a weird habit of touching the boys’ cheeks, ruffling their hair, and calling them such precious little things much to both of the brother’s annoyance. And he was the one Sherlock had to give his room up to for the holidays. 

“Playing deductions again, little brother?” came Mycroft’s voice. He always sounded so sure of himself and his intelligence, his ability to read Sherlock like a book. He was holding a smaller but equally as fancy drinking glass like all the others, except instead of wine it held sparkling cider, a way to make him feel as important as the rest. Sherlock scrunched his face up in contempt, not giving Mycroft the satisfaction of a response. “...really now,” he continued, “you pretend you’re so intelligent, Sherlock, when really, you’re about as normal and stupid as the rest. Don’t you think?”

Before Sherlock could come up with something as hurtful as his brother had said, their mother made her appearance, smiling as she held the freshly prepared turkey. It smelled simply marvelous and turned all of the heads. She sat down beside her husband and announced a toast, prompting everyone to raise their glasses. Mycroft smirked at his little brother before raising his. 

It took him a minute to notice that he was now the only one without a glass in his hands, and now the center of attention, when his father spoke quietly, “William, it’s good manners to raise your glass for a toast.”

He felt his cheeks get hot with frustration and embarrassment. He slowly grasped the regular cup they provided (it wasn’t nearly as fancy as theirs) and raised it. Mycroft still had that stupid grin on his face as he, and all the others, toasted for Christmas. Sherlock could barely speak the words, he simply took a sip of his juice and sat there quietly, concocting a plan to get back at his brother. The words had to be chosen carefully, and had to cut through Mycroft like a knife. All the resentment, all the name calling and all of those awful smirks… Mycroft didn’t seem to believe that his little brother, only seven years old, was even capable of such retaliation. 

Attention was elsewhere now, as casual conversations turned into laughter, and stories of travel and Christmases past and failed relationships and school were tossed about the room. Taking the opportunity, Sherlock turned to his brother and said, “My, my Mycroft, have you gotten fatter?” and watched in triumph as his brother’s cheeks flushed a bright red. It was a secret to most, but not to those who counted, that Mycroft had in fact been a bit obsessive about his weight. He was a chubby child, and would often get made fun of for it at school- not that it mattered, Mycroft would say indifferently, as he poked his stomach in the mirror. Sherlock watched him do this many times before, even argue tirelessly with their mother about the subject after she got a call from the school to report such behavior. She had always tried to cast his weight in a positive light, and Mycroft would agree if only to get her to go away faster. She caught on, unluckily for him, and their talks became increasingly longer and more drawn out than before. But no matter, it had had the desired effect.

“Now you listen here…” Mycroft spoke through gritted teeth, grabbing Sherlock by the collar and pulling him closer so not to raise his voice, “you better watch your mouth, dear brother of mine, if you want to live your entire life expectancy.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Sherlock responded nonchalantly. 

“Well, you should be. I am older and therefore much wiser and stronger than you could ever be, so next time you want to open your stupid little mouth and make fun of me, well.. I would reconsider.” 

That much was true, and they both knew that. It was solid, unforgiving fact. Mycroft was, unfortunately, seven years his senior, and he made sure Sherlock was aware of this. And, although Sherlock was a bit tall for his age, Mycroft was taller, and made a point of that as well. He seemed to do anything he could to control his brother since he couldn’t control anything else in his life, being only fourteen years old. All the harsh words boiled inside Sherlock for years before finally becoming resentment, something Mycroft would later feel sorry for. You’re thirty years late for a sorry Sherlock would say upon being handed an apology. 

“Boys!” came their mother’s voice over the noise. They simultaneously met her eyes, which were something fierce. Suddenly, all the noise around them had died down at the sudden, sharp accusation. Mycroft and Sherlock both became overwhelmed, usually their quarrels were behind closed doors or out in the yard, never in front of an audience (unless they counted that one time that Mycroft had so unceremoniously pushed Sherlock on the playground, which had resulted in an inane argument between the two of them and no dessert for a week). But this time their mother was looking at them with tired eyes as she spoke very clearly, “...up to your rooms. I’ve had enough of your nonsense for one day.” 

“But mummy-” Sherlock started to argue, but wasn’t able to speak any more, when she stood up and grabbed both of her son’s hands.

Without a word they were dragged out of the room and up the stairs. Their house was vast and decorated to look as festive as a house could possible be; both of their rooms were on the same floor but on opposite ends of the hallway with their parents and older brother’s bedrooms in between, a little precaution should one of them decide to get out of bed and torment the other. Once they were out of hearing range and the conversations had started again as though completely disregarding the little fit, their mother stopped and turned them both around. “Mycroft and William Holmes,” she began, keeping her voice level and so chillingly calm, “...I really expected better from you two tonight. You two have been nothing but trouble today and I told you to clean up your acts if you want anything nice for Christmas this year. You two stay up here in your rooms and think about what you’ve done, do you understand me?”

“Yes, mummy,” both boys said, Sherlock with his eyes downcast to the floor, although he was seething with rage since this was all Mycroft’s fault; and Mycroft with the smallest hint of triumph in his voice, which his mother had caught onto. She glanced up at him in warning, before taking his to his room by the wrist, and shutting the door. She turned back to her youngest son with the same look, and pointed at his bedroom. With a nod, Sherlock disappeared into his bedroom and shut the door behind him. He listened as her footsteps retreated back downstairs, no doubt to rejoin the conversations and laughter and forget for a moment that her children were acting up. Half tempted to sneak out to get in the final word and make Mycroft sorry for ruining his chances for a new train set at Christmas, Sherlock stood there, hand poised to turn the doorknob. No doubt Mycroft was plotting something similar on the other end of the hallway, especially now that they were out of earshot.

Was it truly worth sacrificing what might be salvageable of Christmas morning? As much as Sherlock tried to deny it to avoid seeming childish, he couldn’t push past the fact he was honestly excited. Mycroft always made a scene, insisting he was too old to believe in the magic man and the gifts were crummy- he had been that way even when he was a child. Perhaps, Sherlock thought, he had been born without the ability to feel joy at all. That would explain a lot.

Despite wanting to go and start another argument and bring up more of Mycroft's flaws (just to knock his brother down a few notches), Sherlock ultimately decided against it. Perhaps this time alone was more of a gift than he had previously considered; now, he had time to really construct a well developed insult. And, best of all, he could wait patiently to strike and still have Christmas.


End file.
